Page 2 of The Prodigy

“Yeah. And pour you one, too.”

Her lack of reaction let me know she was used to niggas buying her drinks. Not surprising, because she was the best-looking chick in here. I stared at her juicy lips and wondered if I had time to get some ass before I went walking into the lion’s den later.

She set another glass in front of me. Hers, she kept in her hands.

“We drinking to anything?” she said softly. She had a nice voice.

I picked up my glass and stared into her eyes. “Yeah. To my pops. He died today.”

I threw my drink back before she had a chance to react to that. She seemed frozen, like she’d glitched out or some shit.

“You can drink,” I said with a grin.

She blinked a few times. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

I shrugged. “I knew it was coming.”

“Still…” she trailed off.

“Throw that back, shawty.” I was feeling impatient for some reason. Maybe because the longer she stared at me, the more I felt like I should be feeling deeper emotions. Reacting a different way. Like I should feel sadder than I did.

She did what I said, and then she set her glass down and stared at me. I regretted telling her that, because now she was looking at me with sad puppy dog eyes, and ain’t a damn thing sexy about those.

“One more,” she said. “On me.”

“You always give out drinks to niggas whose daddy just died?” I teased.

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be,” I said. My muscles were starting to relax. I bit my lip and gave her the look. “I really wanna know.”

“No. I just felt like doing something nice. If you don’t want it, just say that.”

“Nah, I definitely want it,” I said, and I chuckled to myself when she looked down, all shy and embarrassed. Yeah, this might could be something.

Two Hennesseys and a Jack and Coke later, I was good and numb to all the shit that was waiting for me just fifteen miles down the road. Homegirl came to check on me periodically, but I had already figured out that she wasn’t with it. I wouldn’t be getting any ass tonight.

I threw my hand up to signal her, then pulled my wallet out of my back pocket, selecting a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill.

“You want your check?”

I peered at her. Might as well give it one last try. I ain’t have shit to lose. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Malika.” She crossed her arms. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Before I could answer, the door opened and a man walked in. This was notable for a few reasons. One, that nigga was big and swole. Two, when he stepped in, his eyes locked right in on me. And three, it was seventy-something degrees outside and this nigga was wearing a bubble goose. Now, I’d been a housecat for eight years, so I was out of practice on the street shit, but I remembered enough to keep myself alive.

I slid the bill across the counter. “Keep it. And thanks for the drink, love.”

“You’re…welcome,” she said, but I wasn’t paying her any mind. I was already on my feet.

Trouble was brewing.

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